


How like a winter

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Barebacking, Case Fic, Cursed Object, Domesticity, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Masturbation, Past Underage, Riding, Season/Series 06, Sharing a Bed, Snowbound Cabin, first time in a long time, historical setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21524098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: When a hunt for a cursed snow globe goes sideways, Sam and Dean land in an enchanted cabin, frozen in 1925. Thrown back in time—in more ways than one—their only chance to escape is to deal with Dean’s issues, and maybe Sam’s too. Whatever that means…
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 34
Kudos: 182





	How like a winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dragonardhill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonardhill/gifts).



> Written in fulfillment of your bid in the [auction for theatregirl7299](https://fanworksauction.livejournal.com/3097.html). Thank you so much for your generosity, and for taking a chance on me! ^_^
> 
> Deepest gratitude to Nisaki for the most thorough and merciless (in the best way) beta. Love to you always.

Sam sweeps his EMF detector over a tangle of mismatched furniture, nose scrunched against the musty, unmistakable smell of antique mall.

“Hey, Sammy, I got a hit over here!”

Sam heads across the enormous sales floor. Streetlights cast a dim glow through the storefront windows, stacked with old clocks and vases, clothes and toys.

“You think it’s the one we’re after?” Sam calls.

“I dunno, man; it’s a fuckin’ snow globe. What the hell!”

“Bobby said it could be anything.”

He hadn’t had any details. _“Bad juju,”_ he’d said, and when Dean objected, _“Listen, boy. Isabelle’s one of the best, no-nonsense psychics I ever seen. She wouldn’ta called me if this was bullshit.”_

So, they’d hit the road.

Sam unwraps Isabelle’s crystal, charged to glow if it got close to whatever she was getting vibes off of. Faint, amethyst light shines brighter as Sam follows Dean’s voice.

“Crystal seems to like it,” Sam says.

“Well I’m gonna get a picture. See if Bobby can find anything out.”

“Don’t touch it!”

“What am I, an idiot?”

Sam grins. Dean’s in a rare form lately. Tight lines around his eyes but he jokes free, laughs deep like Sam hasn’t seen in years. No deal, no demon blood or end of the world hanging over them. Whatever’s up with this, Mother of All, him and Dean? They’re solid.

He shoves down a pang of guilt about walking around soulless all those months _(don’t scratch the wall_ ). Sooner or later, that’s gonna come back and bite them in the ass—just how things work when you’re Winchesters. But for now, Sam’s following Dean’s lead, grabbing the good while it lasts.

“Ow!” Dean yelps. “The son of a bitch got me!”

Sam feels the blood drain from his face. “What do you mean, it got you?”

No answer.

Isabelle’s crystal flickers and fades. Sam hustles, quick as he can with all this glass around. He scans the aisles. “Dean, answer me!” Pulse spikes. He rounds a tall shelf piled with dishes, paperweights, and figurines. “Oh, God.” Dean’s on the floor.

No, wait.

Dean’s clothes are on the floor. Sam risks his flashlight. Dean’s cell phone gleams, mercifully intact. Black bandana shows a trace of blood. Sam checks out the shelves, finds an empty spot, waist high with a void in the dust. Wherever Dean went, Sam has to figure, the snow globe went with him.

“Guess he found what we were looking for,” Sam mutters. Cuts his light, collects Dean’s things and slips out through the storeroom into an alley.

He finds Dean’s keys in their usual pocket. Walks the block or so to where they parked the car. Hardly inconspicuous, bundle of clothes tucked under his arm. Panic, probably, on his face. Sam slides in the driver’s seat, dials Bobby with shaking hands.

“Sam.”

He can’t blame the man, after what Sam did _(don’t scratch the wall)_ , but the ice in Bobby’s voice still hurts. “I-uh, I think we found the item.”

“Well get it in a curse box and bury it in concrete; y’all know the drill.”

“I can’t.” Sam says. “Not—”

“Sam,” Bobby asks, “where’s your brother?”

“I don’t know.” Sam rubs his forehead. “He said it got him, and then… by the time I could get to him he was gone.”

“Balls.”

*

Sam stops at a Motel 6. Unloads, wards up the walls. Dean’s phone burns in his pocket, unfamiliar weight a constant reminder. Chair legs screech across the floor and Sam settles at the little table. Lights Dean’s phone up.

Password.

Mom’s birthday, no dice. Last four-five-six of Dean’s social, Lawrence zip code. _Come on, Sam, don’t overthink it_. Dean’s birthday, still nothing. Sam’s…?

 _Yahtzee_. Dean’s voice in his head makes Sam’s chest hurt. _Gallery… Gallery…_ Sam pulls up the camera roll and—thank God for small favors—sees three thumbnails of the snow globe.

His eyes flick down. He doesn’t mean to snoop, but…

Mixed between pages of library books; snapshots of lore, spellwork and sigils; restaurants Dean’s liked and cool themed motels… Sam blinks. Most of Dean’s pictures—seriously, like, eighty percent of these—are of _him_.

Some, Sam knew about. Mud-caked, caught in a pop-up storm halfway through a salt-and-burn. _“Smile, Sammy,”_ Dean had said, and Sam flipped the bird.

Supergirl and Superman at a truck stop somewhere in Illinois. Sam’s face looked like curdled milk while Dean beamed. Bobby took this. He remembers. 

Eyes closed, plastic spoon stuck in his mouth. _This was like... three phones ago._ Dean laughed his ass off. Kicked off their last true prank war. _Texas_ , Sam thinks. _Tulpa in Texas_.

His heart crawls up in his throat.

Dozens more. Sam in Fed threads, reading the paper. Sleeping, gold morning sun through mini blinds striping his back. At the wheel, rain on the window refracting streetlights behind his profile. On his laptop. In the mirror. A salad bar somewhere.

Sam shakes his head. Dizzy. Like he can’t draw air. He…

He has to put whatever this is in a box. Find Dean first. Then he can think about…

Sam texts all the snow globe pics to Bobby, Bluetooths them to his computer. Dean—bless him—held up a dollar bill in the first shot, gave it scale. Sam marks the thing maybe five inches overall. Art Deco, he’s almost sure. Red glass pedestal, hexagon shaped, two inches tall and tiered like a wedding cake. Inside the dome, breathtaking detail. Pine trees, all around a little log cabin. Steep-pitched roof with a covered porch. Red door. Yellow windows almost glow. There’s even carved chimney smoke.

Sam’s phone rings.

“Bobby.”

“I got you a lead.”

“That was fast.”

“Soon as you said snow globe I got to digging.”

“Tell me what you’ve got.” Sam puts him on speaker, grabs a notebook.

“Okay,” Bobby starts. “About a hundred years ago, this woman, Millie McCreary, got run outta Boston for suspicion of witchcraft.”

“Great,” Sam says. Witches again. Dean’s gonna bitch himself hoarse.

“Millie had a son—Rian—in 1913. Born under a new moon, in the Devil’s Hour, blah-blah-blah… Folks nowadays think what she really done was get knocked up by the local priest, but anyway…” Pages rustle. “Millie took the baby and headed out west. Montana, Idaho maybe. All this so far is true, best I can tell.”

“But?”

“The rest come out of a horror pulp. One of them, ‘weird true tales’ rags.”

“So, dubious.”

“Generally, I’d say yes.” Bobby says. “But the illustrations match your pictures dead on.”

Sam draws a line across the page with a couple of question marks.

Bobby goes on. “Now. Come 1925 or so, Millie’s getting by as a healer and a midwife. Selling poultices, lucky charms. White witch stuff. But little Rian, he’s showing signs of becoming a psychopath. Picking fights, mutilating animals. Ain’t long before the witch rumors start back up. Like, folks saying he’s doing sacrifices, you know.”

“So she built the snow globe.”

“Well, this here just says she enchanted it. Figured she’d keep him safe, but also keep the world safe from _him_. Here. Lemme just…” More shuffling. “‘With a drop of blood, the McCreary Snowstorm whisked the youth to another world.’”

“That’s pretty ruthless,” Sam says.

“Eh, not really. He had everything he could ever want in there. Plus—and this is the good news for you—she built a backdoor. Since they shared the same blood, she could visit him. And she made it so he could get out, if he ever learned compassion.”

“But…” Sam underlines _backdoor_. “Dean’s like, the most compassionate person I know.”

“Oh, I agree,” Bobby says, “but you and I both know Dean’s got… issues. Magical psych ward might just…”

“Yeah.” Sam winces. “You know, to be fair, I’ve got my share of… issues too. You sure we can get back out if I follow him?”

“I ain’t sure of nothing with this thing. I figure worst case, it just don’t work. Second worst case, y’all get stuck in there playing with snow for the rest of your lives.”

After all the shit they’ve been through, part of Sam thinks that’s the _best_ -case scenario. “I don’t guess your ‘weird true tales’ published the backdoor spell.”

“It did, but, like I say—”

“I’ll take my chances.” Sam doesn’t see where he has any other choice.

“Figured you’d say that,” Bobby mutters. “Write this down.”

*

Sam parks behind an abandoned farmhouse. Sends Bobby coordinates; he’ll pick up the car in a week if Sam doesn’t contact him.

Dusty kitchen, hardwood floor. Sam draws the sigil Bobby sent him in white chalk. Lights his candles: north, east, south, west. Rose quartz, bloodstone in a bowl with mistletoe, pine bark, purified water. Bloodied scrap of Dean’s bandana. Sam draws a silver blade across his palm.

“Blood to blood, body to body.”

Fog pours from the bowl.

“Blood to blood, body to body.”

Sam’s head swims. Eyes sting.

“Blood to blood, body to body,” he chants on.

Fog builds, wraps him like arms. Sam breaks out in goosebumps, blinded.

“Sammy?”

Smell of pine. He looks up. Farmhouse ceiling replaced with a clear blue sky. Hardwood floor turned to thick snow. Icicles sparkle off the cabin’s eaves. Sam’s breath steams.

“How’d you get in here, man? The snow globe came with me.” Dean’s all over him. Patting his ribs, searching his eyes. Checking for injuries.

“I-uh…” Sam squints against the sun. “I used the backdoor.”

Dean hooks an eyebrow. Whatever butt joke crosses his mind, he keeps it buttoned.

Sam rolls eyes and Dean grins. He’s in a vintage corduroy coat, blue-gray. Dark pants stuffed into knee-high boots. A fucking deerstalker hat. Of course, he looks gorgeous. Cold-pink nose and rosy cheeks set off his eyes. Arms strain in his jacket sleeves. Beard’s grown in, one day longer than the carefully groomed scruff he thinks makes him look badass.

Sam checks his own clothes. Same tall boots, but his coat is canvas—tan, leather-trimmed and fur-lined. On his head he feels a knit sock cap.

“Hope you like _Great Gatsby_ cosplay,” Dean says.

Sam blinks. “Gatsby?”

“I told you I fuckin’ read!”

“I… I didn’t—” Sam stammers.

Dean waves him off. “Seriously. How’d you get in here? You got mojo that’ll get us out?”

“It’s… complicated.” Sam grimaces.

“Like, we gotta learn Ancient Greek complicated, or—”

Chuckling. “No, nothing like that.”

Wind shakes the pines and snow blows loose. Peppers Sam’s face and he shivers.

“Let’s get inside, huh?” Dean slaps Sam’s shoulder. “You can help me carry in firewood. Been splittin’ all morning; we should be set.”

He leads Sam up on the porch, under exposed rafters where the roof overhangs. Frost clings to the windows. They drop armloads of split logs in an iron rack and head through the red door.

Sam scans the interior. Sturdy, mission-style furniture in dark wood. Lace sheers under linen curtains. Built-in bookshelves, rocking chairs in a reading nook. Pair of sofas face a stone fireplace flanked by stained glass. Snow globe sits on the mantle, pack of cards on the coffee table. At the back, a breakfast bar partitions the kitchen; stairs lead to a second-story loft. Vaulted ceiling. Wood floor under enormous rag rugs. Everything’s a little beat-up, but for a hundred years old, it’s not bad.

Kind of reminds Sam of the cabin Dad dumped them in for New Year’s, Y2K. This one’s a lot nicer, of course, but the log walls and stone hearth give it the same feel—to say nothing of the pine and soot smells.

Dean pushes a button and wall lights pop on.

“There’s electricity?” Sam didn’t expect that.

Dean nods. “Running water too, who knew?”

“Huh,” Sam says. “Guess Millie wanted the kid comfortable.” Which, makes sense, now that he thinks about it.

“Who’s Millie?” Dean asks, “And what kid?” He stacks fresh wood in the fireplace. Gestures for Sam to take a seat.

Sam fills him in while Dean stokes the fire, burned down to coals while he worked outside. Even so, the place is cozy. Magic, probably. Beats central heat.

“So I’m stuck here, what? Until I’m mentally healthy?” Dean flops on the sofa next to Sam. Puts his sock feet on the coffee table. “Good thing the furniture’s comfy.”

Sam elbows him. “It’s not a joke, Dean. And for all we know I’m stuck here too.”

“Like when we were kids.” Dean winces.

And Sam finds it hard to ignore that tell. _Damn Dean’s camera roll_.

“Hey, what’d you do with my car?”

And just like that, the moment’s gone.

*

Dean digs up slate and chalk from a corner sideboard. “Okay, one-time offer. You get to tell me everything that’s wrong with me.”

Sam chuckles, wary. “Why don’t you go first?”

Dean shrugs. “Daddy issues.” Chalk tap-squeaks and he sneezes. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I miss your laptop.” He rubs his nose. “Your turn.”

“You-uh…” Sam takes a breath. “Kind of have a temper.”

“Anger management!” Dean nods. “That’s good. And I probably like killing a little too much.”

“Junk food?” Sam offers.

“You think that’s—”

“And you’re a slob.”

“Hey, easy!” Dean says. “This ain’t Miss Manners, over here.”

“Fair.” Sam shows his palms.

“Can’t…” Chalk scratches the slate. “…commit…”

Sam swallows.

“…to women.” Dean grimaces. “Y’know? It’d be nice if like, the lights would flicker or something if I got it right.”

Sam squirms. Then, “You lie a lot.”

Dean eyes him.

“I know, it’s part of the job; I’m just saying…”

Dean’s mouth gets flat but he writes. Tight, cramped letters squeeze in at the edge of the slate. Dean huffs, “I’m out of room on this fuckin’ thing.” He plunks it on the table. “Shoulda seen that comin’, huh?”

“I’m not… sure it’s helping anyway,” Sam says.

“Yeah, no shit.” He flops back. Forearm covers his eyes. Long, lean body ripples as he stretches. “So. What’s the plan?”

Sam hikes a shoulder. “Meditation? Reflection?”

Dean peeks an eye out. “Not my strong suits, Sammy.”

“Maybe there’s clues around the house. You been through those bookshelves?”

Rumbling laugh.

Sam gets up. “What was it, ‘trusty geekboy sidekick?’” He feels Dean’s eyes on him, crossing the room. “To the rescue.”

“Hey, Sam?”

He turns back.

“I’m not tickled about you magicking yourself in here, but…” Licked lips, Sam’s stomach swoops. “Thanks.”

“You’re my brother,” Sam says.

Dean nods.

*

Dean studies the five cards in his hand. “I raise you… two kidney beans.” He flicks them to the center of the coffee table.

Sam’s eye twitches. “And how many popcorn kernels is that?”

Dean shrugs. “Five, I guess?”

“You guess.”

“Ain’t like we’re playin for real, man.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“C’mon,” Dean taunts. “You in or you out?”

“Out,” Sam folds a pair of queens. Doesn’t show his cards.

“Coward.”

Their bookcase search gave up nothing. Shelves stacked with schoolbooks, cookbooks, travelogues, and novels. Seems like Millie, probably wisely, kept all her magic in the real world.

“Seven-card stud.” Sam shuffles. Age-worn cards soft from oily fingers. “Nothing wild.”

“Man’s game,” Dean says. “You sure you can handle that?”

Sam ignores him. Any crack about _stud_ or _man’s game_ would just drag up…

“What if we make it interesting?” Dean waggles eyebrows.

“Interesting how?” Sam tries to sound nonchalant.

“Not strip poker, it ain’t that kind of party.”

Sam glares, deals the first pass. “Right. I want to play strip poker inside a literal snow globe.” Hard eye-roll.

“Good point,” Dean concedes. “But…” Smirks. “I was thinking more, loser gets wood tomorrow.”

 _Dipshit_. “Sure,” Sam says. “Does the winner get to watch?”

Dean eyes him. “Aw, Sammy. Can’t wait to show big brother how you handle a log?”

Sam’s face heats. “I intend to win, Dean.” Nods at the pot. “Your bet.”

Back and forth. Fire burns low and neither one of them gets a good streak going. Outside, sunset. Stained glass windows redden and go dark.

Dean yawns, cracks his neck. “Fuck it. I’m all in.” Whole pile of corn and beans shoved to the middle.

“Call,” Sam says. Ten-high straight hits the table. Ought to hold up.

Dean’s cheeks blow out. “Dealer draws two,” he says.

“You bluffed?” Sam stares.

Dean shrugs, takes his cards. “I had trips, I didn’t—ha!” He lays them down. “Full house, Sammy, read ’em and weep!”

Sam rubs his forehead. “You are the luckiest fucker I ever—”

“Gonna be so niiiice,” Dean gloats, pulls in the pot. “I’m gonna sit on that porch, drink coffee…”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam stands up, stretches. “You’re making breakfast though.”

“Obviously,” Dean scoffs. Scoops up his winnings in a bowl. “Hey, you didn’t see extra blankets while you were poking around, did ya?” He heads for the kitchen. “I don’t mind taking the couch, but…”

 _Dammit_. “There’s only one bed upstairs.” Sam should’ve thought of that.

“’Fraid so.”

Sam blurts, “We can share,” before he loses his nerve.

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up.

“I mean… assuming it’s not a twin.”

“Well it ain’t no king, I’ll tell you that much.”

“We’ll be fine,” Sam says. “And a hell of a lot warmer.”

Dean tilts his head.

“What, are you scared I’ll roll over and squash you?”

“Naw, man,” Dean says, “it’s just—”

 _He’s been sleeping with Lisa_. “I mean it, Dean. We’ll be fine.” Honestly, Sam could go for some of Dean’s sleep snuggles right now. “Quit being weird.”

“You’re weird,” Dean mutters, but he heads for the stairs.

Boards creak as they climb, though the steps feel solid. Simple slat bannisters, balcony rails overlook the living room. Cedar chests line the walls under the sloping ceiling. In the center sits a heavy four-post bed, hung with drapes and piled with quilts and pillows.

“It’s actually pretty comf,” Dean says. “I thought it’d be stuffed with straw or some shit, but it’s nice. Oh! And…” He opens a chest at the foot of the bed. “Here.”

Flannel PJ’s sail across the room, thump Sam’s chest, fleecy and soft. Dean turns his back and starts stripping layers. Standard operating procedure but Sam’s pulse kicks, skin feels too tight. He’s off-kilter from seeing Dean’s picture stash, and this place is not helping. He swallows, dry. Gets to work changing his clothes.

Dean throws the covers back, starts closing the drapes. “Y’know, I think I saw a hot water bottle in the bathroom. You want me to—”

“No, no that’s okay,” Sam says. If it’s cold up here he can’t feel it.

They crawl in, tight fit and their shoulders press. Sam’s heart pounds. He’ll never get any sleep like this.

“Hey when’s the last time we…” Dean trails off, probably remembered the answer, and Sam stays quiet.

Because, Sam was eighteen. Dad was there, and the three of them got the last room—no rollaways left—on a hot August night in a tourist town, vacation season. Sweating, sliding against each other and giddy with getting away with something. Dad snored, four feet away in a Jim Beam coma and Dean tasted like the Hawaiian shaved ice they’d bought from a shack in the parking lot.

“Blue raspberry,” Sam whispers. Looks Dean’s way though he can’t see shit in the pitch black under the drapes. “You remember?”

Dean’s breath hitches. “Was a long time ago.” And he rolls, springs creak and he puts his back to Sam, puts space between them.

Sam stares up at nothing. He should tell Dean—what he saw, what he wants, what he never gave up wanting. How he’d just assumed Dean would follow him, come to California to keep Sam safe. How losing Dean, seeing him sacrifice himself had almost killed Sam. Tell him—

“You had fruit punch,” Dean says.

Record scratch, in Sam’s head.

“Now shut up and go to sleep.”

Sam turns on his side, and Dean hooks a foot over one of Sam’s ankles.

*

Thrilled, but somehow not surprised at all, Sam wakes up the little spoon. He doesn’t move, barely dares to breathe—Dean’s arm around his middle and nose behind his neck.

“I know you’re awake,” Dean mumbles. “Can tell by your breathing.”

Sam gets tense.

“Don’t freak out, I didn’t wanna wake you up is all. Got a big day chopping wood, loser.”

Bed squeaks as Dean dislodges, stretches. “I’ma start breakfast.” Cold blast of air when the drapes part. “Fuck!” Shiver shakes the whole bed.

Sam roots down under the covers. Pulse spikes _(don’t scratch the wall)_. Detroit, foggy windows, four rings in his pocket and—

Soft thump on the mattress. “That’s socks and long johns,” Dean says. “Put those on before you get out, it should help.”

Sam could almost weep with gratitude.

Dean’s footsteps trail downstairs. Comforting, scrapes and thunks of metal, wood, and stone as he gets the fire going. Sam stirs, finally. Roots in the cedar chests for clothes. Mostly familiar: blue jeans, button-ups, colorful sweaters.

He glimpses outside; breath catches. Snowfall. Huge white flakes drift-swirl like feathers in the eddies. On the ground: thick, pristine accumulation. All their tracks from yesterday erased.

Coffee and bacon smells waft up and Sam’s stomach growls.

“You need a hand with anything?” He asks when he gets downstairs.

“Nah,” Dean says. “Coffee’s almost done. You can grab cups if you want.”

Sam pokes around. Must have been a state-of-the-art kitchen in 1925. Dean fries bacon on a green and white gas range. Spindly legs prop up four burners, double ovens to one side. Carved oak ice box—two small doors next to one tall one—emits a low hum.

“Is this electric?” Sam asks.

“Yeah!” Dean beams. “It’s a fuckin’ Kelvinator, can you believe it?”

“I… don’t know what that means.”

Dean gives him a brush-off gesture. “And you’re supposed to be the smart one.”

Sam glares.

“You can Google it when we get home.”

Sam shakes his head. He finds cups and saucers and sets them out. Dean pours.

“I was thinking,” Sam says. “How do we even have groceries? I mean—magic, obviously but like, how does this work?”

Dean shrugs. “Best I can tell? Y’know, seeing as I’ve only been here a couple of days—everything seems to… I dunno, respawn overnight. Like, the canisters refill, meat re-ups.”

“Wow.”

“Oh, it gets better. There was no beer here the first day. Now…” Dean opens a door on the ice box. Six nondescript brown bottles occupy a corner. “Turned up yesterday. We drank four last night.”

“So, if I were to what, _wish_ for—”

“If you say veggie burgers I’m gonna lock you in the woodshed.”

“I was gonna say SpaghettiOs.”

Dean’s eyes get big.

“For nostalgia, gimme a break.”

“Dork,” but Dean shrugs. “I kinda doubt it. I think it only works if it existed. Like, I was thinking about hot chocolate—y’know, Swiss Miss or whatever—but I ended up with a can of Dutch cocoa.”

Sam makes a face.

“It’s fine, man. I got milk and sugar in here; I adapt.”

Sam pictures Dean, stirring milk in a tin pot on an antique stove… Affection bursts in his chest.

Dean turns back to the bacon, flips it in its heavy skillet. “I hope scrambled eggs are okay. I will fuck up an omelet on cast iron.”

Sam stares.

“I can toast bread on the burner here, but—” He catches Sam staring. “What?”

“You’re like… domesticated.”

“Dude.” Dean’s palms turn up. “I cook at Bobby’s, all the time.”

“You put burritos in the microwave.”

“Because that’s what he keeps in the fridge!” Dean rolls eyes. “Just drink your coffee and don’t sass the chef.”

Sam laughs and Dean shoots him an eyebrow. Twinge of how it might have been, if Dean would’ve, if he _could’ve_ left the life. Twists Sam’s stomach.

“Actually, why don’t you make yourself useful and get the butter out,” Dean says. “It’s in the pantry over there. Oh, and if you’re gonna want cheese, you gotta slice it.”

Sam gets to work.

*

By lunchtime, Sam feels like he’s split enough logs to _build_ a fucking cabin, let alone heat one. Arms numb, legs shaky and ribs sore. Dean, just like he promised, sat on the porch in his dumbass hat and drank coffee while Sam chopped.

Snow stopped while they ate breakfast, left a thick powder of wet, packing snow. Sam trudges to the woodshed, stows the axe and when he shuts the door—

_Whump._

Dean nails him with a snowball, square between the shoulder blades.

“Oh, you are gonna _die_.” Sam breaks toward the trees. Dean’s second shot splats the woodshed right where he was just standing.

“Saaammmyyy…” Dean singsongs. “Come out and plaaayyy!”

Sam ducks around behind the cabin, rolls two snowballs and doubles back. Takes cover at a corner, hears Dean’s boots in the snow. He crouches, pulls off his hat and holds it high…

_Whoosh!_

Dean’s volley zips past. Sam pops out—still low—pelts Dean in the chest.

“Aw, you fucker!” Dean gripes.

Sam dashes for the woodshed, takes a hit to his legs. Which means, Dean should be out of ammo. Sam spins and fires. Snow explodes across Dean’s back.

“You are such a little shit, you know that!”

“Fight smarter, not harder, Dean!” And Sam posts up behind a thick pine trunk.

“Your tracks look like a herd of cattle, Sammy,” Dean taunts.

Sam listens. Dean stops moving, must be arming up. Sam peeks; he’s got a window. Retraces his steps, moves quick-quiet back toward the woodshed. Snow’s packed down here, lets him maneuver better.

He’s creeping around the far side, still can’t hear Dean and that makes him fucking nervous. Tries the hat trick again, nothing. Sticks his head out; coast is clear. Now he’s really nervous. Sam falls back. Maybe Dean bit on the false trail—

Out of nowhere, Dean’s on him. Drives him three or four steps to the fresh snow, sweeps his legs and puts Sam on his back.

“Ow,” Sam complains. Eyes flutter open and Dean…

“Gotcha,” Dean breathes, warm air on Sam’s face.

Hips press. All Sam can do to not squirm, rub up on him. Last time this happened…

_“Whoa. Easy tiger.”_

And Sam could just tilt, crane his neck and part his lips…

Dean hoists himself off. Sticks out a red-chapped hand and pulls Sam to his feet.

“You suck,” Sam says, smacking the snow off his sleeves. “You’re a cheater, and you suck.”

Dean grins. Spins Sam and brushes his back. “C’mon, yeti, let’s go get warm.”

They sit by the fire. Dean makes hot cocoa and—Sam shouldn’t be surprised—it tastes amazing. He needs to shower. Sweat and a knit cap ruined his hair; he feels gross.

“Tell you what,” Dean says, once they’re nice and toasty. “We got canned soup in that pantry. Tomato okay?”

Sam sort of forgot how hungry he was. “Yeah, that’s perfect.”

“Oo, I can do grilled cheese too! And pickles, there’s a straight-up mason jar of pickles in there; I bet they’re awesome.”

Sam grins, shakes his head. Hauls up from the sofa and heads upstairs to find clothes.

*

Steam curls from the big clawfoot tub as Sam steps under the stream. Bathrooms, he notes, haven’t changed much in a hundred years. Little things: Bare plumbing, pipes clad in bright chrome. Wall-mounted toilet tank and faucet knobs on the long edge of the tub. Otherwise, white porcelain fixtures, sage tile walls. Good old Ivory soap in a recessed dish.

Sunlight pours through a stained-glass window, casts a kaleidoscope on the shower curtain. White towels, striped with golden brown, hang on chrome rails. Rich brown bath mat spreads across the beige tile floor.

Sam scrubs, ears to his toes. Can’t quit thinking about Dean, wrapped around him this morning, on top of him in the snow. Half his life he’s jerked off to that face, and now… Sam wraps the soapy rag around his shaft, sighs at the friction, stimulation. Plays with his nipples. Closes his eyes, licks lips, lets his mind drift.

Shock and wonder on Dean’s face the first time Sam went to his knees. Whiskey, wood smoke, sweat in the air. Gunshots, fireworks in the distance ringing in the new millennium. Salt. Dean’s cock twitching on his tongue. Hands in his hair and a low-growled _“Sammy, I’m gonna—”_ Choking on Dean’s first shot. Second on his cheek and down his chin.

Sam’s hand tightens, eases. Teases. Drags it out.

Rest stops.

Backseats.

Precious motel nights alone, Dean deep in him, on top, underneath him, hammering. Pulling his cock and talking filthy.

_“Take it.”_

_“Fuck, you’re tight.”_

_“That hole’s mine, you understand me?”_

And best of all:

_“God, Sammy.”_

When he comes, he almost passes out. Almost pulls the curtain off the rod, scrambling for something solid.

Dean knocks. “Hey, your lunch is ready. Want me to stick it in the oven?”

“Uh…” A little breathless. “Yeah, I’ll just be a minute.”

“Take your time.” Chuckle in Dean’s voice says he knows. He always knows.

Sam climbs out, dries and dresses. Shaving kit’s an old-school safety razor. Mug and brush. No wonder Dean’s letting his beard grow.

Dean pulls their plates when Sam leaves the bathroom. “Shower’s awesome, huh?”

Sam’s face heats.

“You could bathe an elephant in that tub.”

 _Or two grown brothers?_ Sam shakes off the image. “You didn’t have to wait for me.”

“Wanted to.” Dean’s shrug can’t mask the warmth in his eyes.

They eat side-by-side. Elbows and knees touch, jostle and rub. Dean slurps his soup, dribbles breadcrumbs down his chin and wipes pickle juice on his shirt. Sam gives him dirty looks, calls him disgusting and Dean grins. Sam can’t help but wonder how it was _(don’t scratch the wall)_ without his soul—if he danced these old routines, out of habit, obligation, or to tamp down Dean’s suspicions.

Dean stacks their empty dishes. “I cooked; you wash. You know the drill.”

Sam grumbles. “When was the dishwasher invented, you think?”

Wicked smile breaks across Dean’s face. “1983!”

Sam’s mouth screws up.

“But it didn’t work for shit until the 90’s.”

Sam walked right into that. “Go…” Watch TV? Find us a case? _Crap_. “Just go.”

Dean bows, backs out of the kitchen.

*

They have beef stew for dinner. Dean cooks half the afternoon—peeling carrots, chopping celery, stirring and tasting and fussing. Takes him four tries, but he eventually pulls off homemade biscuits. Sam reads. Agatha Christie’s _The Murder on the Links_. First-run, worth a hunter’s fortune if they could figure out how to get it out of here. Evening passes over beers and another round of popcorn poker.

Dean yawns. Stands and stretches. Picks up their empties and drags a hand across Sam’s shoulder as he passes. Sam gets tense.

“Shit,” Dean mutters. “I, I didn’t… It’s…” Beer bottles clink on the breakfast bar. “It’s just this place.”

“No, it’s okay,” Sam says. “It’s…” _It’s not just this place_. “Dean, I…” Sam faces him. He’s had enough. “I saw your pictures.”

Dean’s forehead scrunches.

“After you disappeared. I figured out your password and—”

“Dude, you went through my phone?”

“I was only looking for the snow globe, I swear to God.”

“But you couldn’t resist snooping.” All bravado.

“It’s kind of hard to miss.”

Dean’s nostrils flare. Wide pupils and low hips, primed for a fight. “So you caught me. I’m a pervert. Ain’t like it’s headline news.”

“I don’t think…” Sam balls fists. This is going just about as bad as he’d imagined.

“Look, man. I’ll cut it out.”

“Dean…”

“You weren’t supposed to—”

“Dean!”

Eyes snap up.

“Do you,” Sam grasps for the words, “y’know, miss… us?”

“I dunno what you’re talking about, Sam; we’re together all the time.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Dean slumps. Fingers drum the edge of the bar and he shuffles his feet. “Of course I do.” Lights flicker and his eyes dart, but, “You telling me you didn’t know? Christ, man, I knew you’ve been fucked up the last few years—”

Sam flinches.

“Son of a bitch.” Dean rubs his forehead. “I… I didn’t mean to be a dick.”

“No,” Sam says, “you’re just telling the truth.” Eyes close. Fire crackles and dinner lingers in the air. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Dean stares. “You left me, Sam! And you never would’ve looked back if I hadn’t—”

“You let me go! And you only came looking for me because Dad was in trouble.”

Dean reels like he took a punch.

“I _have_ been fucked up.” Sam’s chin hits his chest. “You were right about that. And I guess, I convinced myself that… I dunno, maybe you’d wised up.” Shrugs. “Moved on.”

“Not from you, Sammy.” Raspy. “Never from you.”

Sam looks without lifting his head.

“Annnd there’s the eyes,” Dean grumbles. “You know, I only put up with that puppy dog crap ’cause it works so good on civilians.”

Sam grins. Then, “I apologize, for invading your privacy.”

Dean waves him off. “You were trying to save me.”

“But I’m not sorry I found out.”

Dean’s little chin-tilt says he gets it.

“Way I see it,” Sam moves on his brother, “there’s only one thing to do with all this.” He backs Dean down on a barstool.

Dean’s chin tilts. Tongue flashes, slicks his lips. Whites show around his eyes.

“Kiss me.”

“Bossy,” Dean breathes but he slides a hand up Sam’s breastbone, cradles his neck and guides him down. Soft first sweep deepens as Dean licks, teases in. Third-day stubble scrapes and tingles. Tongues slip side-by-side and lingering beer fades as they re-learn.

“God, Sammy.”

Pressed between Dean’s thighs, Sam feels him stiffen. Buttons catch and fabric tugs as Sam sinks to his knees. Dean palms his cheek and trembling fingers tackle Dean’s belt. Dick jumps inside the corduroy. Metal clinks and leather whispers. Dean’s hand tangles in Sam’s hair. He presses his face to Dean’s open fly, breathes in. Salty, heavy. Smell Sam thought he’d lost except for furtive moments, stuffy motels—out of the shower, back from a run. Dean rocks gentle hips, twitching cock and shaking breath. Sam strokes Dean’s legs. Grasps at his hamstrings, gropes his ass.

“Fuck,” Dean huffs. “We should take this upstairs.”

Sam looks up.

“Rather be someplace soft when you kill me.”

Sam grins, pushes to his feet.

“I’ll meet you there.” Dean ducks off for the bathroom.

Sam climbs. Medicine cabinet door squeaks. Ransacking sounds and Dean pounds up the steps, finds Sam perched on the cedar chest at the foot of the bed.

Dean presents his prize. “Vaseline, baby! Old school.”

Sam stammers, “Are… are you sure? I mean. This last year,” _(don’t scratch the wall)_ “I dunno what, who I—”

“Don’t care,” Dean says. “We catch anything, we make Cas fix it.” Eyebrow arches.

Sam does not have the wherewithal to argue.

He stands and Dean crashes into him. Kissing, cussing. Fighting with buttons and tearing through layers. Sam lets Dean strip him, march him back and shove him on the bed. Dean looks him over and Sam’s all butterflies, naked for his brother and already leaking.

“Fuck, Sammy, gonna make you feel so good.”

Sam kneels up, peels Dean’s shirts off. Paws all over him, maps his scars and freckles. Transformed, since they last touched. Dean pets Sam’s hair, tugs and kisses. Sucks a breath when Sam rakes over a nipple. Pants sag at Dean’s hips and Sam slips fingers in his waistband, underwear and all and bares Dean to his knees.

Hard. Dark and pulsing. Foreskin, that’s new and Dean almost buckles when Sam wraps him in a loose fist. Skates with his thumb.

“Re-hymenated?” Sam smirks up.

Dean goes for a glare, but Sam squeezes and his eyelids flutter. Knees break and Dean tips, lets Sam bring him down, tumble him under. Kicking, Dean ditches the last of his clothes and Sam pins his wrists. Dean bucks and kisses. Cocks rub. Smooth skin, scratchy pubes and bodies ripple. Sweat and shiver. Dean assaults Sam with his tongue. Licking. Nipping. Quiet smacks and throaty groans.

“Need you,” Sam breathes, and turns Dean loose.

Instant. Dean’s hands on his ass. Strong fingers knead and spread. “Gonna let me fuck you, Sammy? Make you wiggle on my dick?”

Sam bites his lip. Grabs for the Vaseline Dean dropped at the foot of the bed. Off balance, Dean takes advantage. Rolls Sam to his back and slots between his legs. Grin makes Sam shake.

“C’mon,” Dean says. “Let’s do this right.” He climbs off, lets Sam get situated on the pillows, knees bent, feet set wide. Dean settles in the space, runs hands up Sam’s shins, pets and squeezes. “Drive me crazy like this.”

Sam takes in his brother’s body. Hard brown nipples, goosebumped skin. Chest hair and treasure trail. Dean’s cock bobs, thick and heavy and Sam thrusts up, aches for it. Dean takes the Vaseline, unscrews the old-style metal cap. Sounds loud as thunder in the quiet woods. Sam vibrates. Lifts a knee and Dean ducks under, ankle on his shoulder. Turns his head and plants a kiss.

“Do it,” Sam murmurs. Bends his back and lifts his ass up off the mattress.

Dean leans down, opens Sam and strokes him dry, draws little circles. Sam clenches. Dean’s smirk burns him up. “So sensitive,” Dean mumbles. “Next time I’m gonna rim you ’til you cry.”

Sam’s abs seize. Dean winks. Scoops a glob of jelly, rubs it all over his fingers. Smears the extra between Sam’s cheeks and sets the jar aside. Sam breathes, concentrates on easing spasming muscles. Dean keeps teasing, spreading slick and dragging wet. Fingertip slips in smooth and Sam groans. Dean slides in to the knuckles.

“Hot in there, little brother.”

Sam hisses. Clamps down on Dean’s finger.

“Tight too.” Dean dips, twists and works the lube in.

Sam writhes on Dean’s hand. Arm across his eyes, jerking his cock. “More. Keep going.”

Dean stops. Sam forces himself to look. Soft smile flashes hungry. Dean holds Sam’s gaze, pulls out. Second finger stings. Sam exhales. Goosebumps rip.

“Look at you. Dyin’ for that dick.”

“Don’t stop,” Sam says. “Want you in me.”

Patient, Dean drives deep. Knows where to curl and tickle. When to pull back, when to press. Sam squirms, clutches at covers and leaks all over himself. Dean plays with him. Makes Sam sloppy and loose.

“You want another?” Dean asks.

Sam shakes his head. “I wanna feel it.”

“Dirty.” Like the highest praise. Dean slicks up. Wipes his hands on a flannel shirt and covers Sam. “If it hurts, you stop me.”

Sam nods, lies. He’s got no mind to stop for anything. Fifty demons could crash through the door and he’d make them wait, make them watch, then take them down.

Dean kisses him. Lips, cheeks, chin, neck. Sam folds. Knees to his shoulders and Dean huffs a laugh in his chest hair. “Okay, okay.”

Thick.

Dean meets resistance.

Blunt.

Hesitates and Sam’s not—

Hot.

Just enough room, Sam flips Dean over. Knees squeeze his hips and hands hold down his shoulders. “Let me…”

Dean salutes, the fucker, and Sam reaches behind, handful of Dean’s slick cock and he lines up, breathes out.

“Fuck yeah, Sammy, sit down on it,” Dean growls. Rubs circles on Sam’s thighs as he sinks.

Sam moans, grits his teeth and takes it. Dean splits him, fills him up. Sam breathes heavy. Pauses. Pleasure in the fire, pressure. Eyes sting, not from pain. Dean shakes under him. Rumbles when he starts to move. Dean strokes him. Curls up, works his nipples. Sam rides, rails himself until his legs shake. Mutters, “Close,” and his hips tilt, money angle and Dean tugs twice, three times and Sam blows all over his belly.

“Yeah, Sammy, mark me up, so hot,” and he doesn’t stop. Jacks Sam, works him. Blast after blast, drains his balls, and still Dean strokes. “Keep it going, little brother, want it all.”

Sam falls. Sweat drips. Shaking. Dean wraps arms around him; tender hands caress his back. Dick slips free, both groan and Dean sits up, puts Sam in his lap and jerks off. Comes between them. Sam chants Dean’s name. Head on his shoulder, nails in his back. Abs seize, hips kick. Dean holds on, behind Sam’s neck and around his waist.

“You okay, Sam?”

Can’t speak. Answers instead with a kiss.

Dean scratches in his hair. “You get your legs underneath you,” whispers, “we’re gonna go christen that tub.”

Laughter. Sam’s joy spilling out. “God, that was—” Words. Sam has words.

“Right?” Dean kisses him. Rolls them over, on their sides and nose to nose. Wet-sticky-slick between. “Guess tomorrow we better figure out the laundry situation.”

Sam grins. “Dean, I—”

“Yeah, I know,” and they kiss some more. Lights fritz again, and Dean mumbles against Sam’s mouth, “Better figure out that situation tomorrow too, huh?”

“Tomorrow,” Sam agrees. He yawns.

Dean shakes his head. Cleans Sam up. Tucks him in.

Sam passes out in his brother’s arms.

*

The clawfoot tub, it turns out, is not quite big enough for two grown brothers.

“If you weren’t such an oversized—mmf! Mmmm.”

Kissing Dean’s mouth shut? Sam has definitely missed that. “Let’s get some breakfast.”

Sam steps to the big farmhouse sink, starts scrubbing coffee cups.

“Uh, Sam?” Dean stares into the odd oak fridge. “This is probably a stupid question, but, any chance you got up early and drank all the beer?”

Sam shoots him a look.

“Yeah, no. I didn’t think so.” Dean pulls out the wire basket of eggs. “Check this out. Only eight.” More rooting around. “We’re out of carrots, the milk’s half gone…”

“So, what? The house didn’t restock overnight?”

“Looks like,” Dean says. “This is bad, Sam. What if this thing’s running out of gas?”

“You really think that’s possible?”

“Fuck, I dunno. But there was that shit with the lights last night—"

“The lights!” Sam breaks in. “Dean! You remember? Day before yesterday, you said it’d be nice if the lights flashed if, you know, you—”

“Had a breakthrough?” Skeptical.

Sam nods. “What if… What if the curse isn’t winding down? What if it’s just trying to kick us out?”

Dean looks up, considers it. “Okay, say you’re right. How do we leave?”

Sam grimaces. “I’m-uh, a little fuzzy on that.”

“You rolled in here without knowing how to get out?” Dean scowls. “Not very smart, Sam.”

“Oh, sure. When it’s _your_ half-baked plan, ‘We’ll figure it out.’ But me—”

Dean shows palms. “You know what? This isn’t helping.” He looks back in the fridge, heads for the pantry. “We can hold out two, maybe three weeks if we ration. Even if the water and lights cut out—”

“Plenty of firewood, melted snow…”

Dean nods.

“But I doubt it’ll come to that,” Sam says. “I’ve been thinking about it. Millie couldn’t bring anything in here with her. Right?”

Dean nods again. “Sooo whatever she used—”

“Has to be...” Sam walks to the mantle. “Tell me what happened to you, exactly. You said the snow globe got you. I found blood on your hanky—”

“There’s a chip in the glass, on the base. Sharp little bastard, poked a hole right in me.”

“What if—” Sam starts.

“I just bleed on it again?”

“I’ll go first.” Sam’s clear on this. “If you don’t follow in ten minutes, I’ll use the spell to come back.”

“Like hell you will!”

“Like hell I won’t.”

Dean glares.

“I’ll do some research first,” Sam concedes. “You can make it twice as long on rations, and I’ll come back with a plan.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to.” Sam folds his arms, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Fine.” He brings Sam a little kitchen knife. “Use this though. God only knows what kind of germs are on that thing.” He points at the globe, nose scrunched.

Sam takes the proffered handle and nicks his finger on the blade. Touches the snow globe—

Whiteout.

In his own clothes, the ones he left behind. Sigil and spell bowl still on the floor. Candles burned down to hardened puddles.

Maybe thirty seconds later—

“Okay, that’s not fair. You’re dressed and I’m naked. What the fuck?”

Sam grabs Dean. Wraps him up and squeezes. Breathes him in. Whole and home. With Sam, where he belongs. Snow globe sits at his feet. “I’ll get your clothes from the car,” Sam says. Assuming it’s still there. He didn’t think to wonder if time would’ve acted different.

Mercifully, it’s right where he left it.

“We should call Bobby,” Dean says, once he’s dressed. “Let him know we’re okay.”

“Definitely.” Sam hands over the keys, and Dean’s phone.

“Get back to the salvage yard,” Dean goes on. “See if he’s got any news on Purgatory, try to get a bead on Cas’s situation.” Dean unlocks his phone, hesitates. “Smile, Sammy!” He taps the screen.

“Dean…”

“I don’t have to be sneaky about it anymore.”

“Great.” Sam rolls his eyes.

“C’mon. Say, ‘Kelvinator!’”

Sam can’t help but grin.

*

Eastbound. Salt-stained asphalt, gauzy fog. Blue Öyster Cult blares from the tape deck. Dean drums the wheel. Sings.

I’m Burnin’ for You.

Sam feels his face get hot and Dean grins. Throws him an eyebrow, slaps his thigh.

“We used to ride like this all the time, you remember?”

Two-lane blacktop twists between the snowy hills.

“Yeah.” Sam covers Dean’s hand. “I remember.” Fingers interlock.

**Author's Note:**

> At the time of posting, theatregirl7299's GoFundMe was still active and accepting contributions. If you'd like to help, you can find more information on the [fanworks auction page](https://fanworksauction.livejournal.com/3097.html). Thanks, everyone!
> 
> Story inspired by [this post](https://universityofwestwincest.tumblr.com/post/188324027551/photos-from-deans-camera-roll) on Tumblr.
> 
> Title cribbed from [Shakespeare’s Sonnet 97](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45101/sonnet-97-how-like-a-winter-hath-my-absence-been).


End file.
